


Bone Tired

by Serendipity_Stupidity



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Declarations Of Love, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post Infinity War, Sam Wilson is a Gift, brief mention of sparrow programmes and references to the torture Bucky went under, canon divergent from then on, canon typical self deprecation, discussions of Bucky's vibranium arm, dramatic super soldiers, emotionally exhausted af, he's called falcon bc he's an excellent wingman, nothing graphic or detailed, symptoms of anxiety in Steve, symptoms of ptsd in Bucky, the title is serious btw its not a sexual pun, these babies are exhausted, vague spoilers for the end of Infinity War Part 1, very emotional, you know the drill lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:39:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipity_Stupidity/pseuds/Serendipity_Stupidity
Summary: Steve wanted an apartment in Brooklyn and he wanted to fill it with the things that he loved; plants, music from a gramophone, strong coffee, Bucky. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.He wonders what it would have been like if they’d never gone to the war, if they’d stayed at home and became worn out in the normal way - through living a life as it was meant to be lived; birth, work, marriage, kids, death. He wonders if he would have been this tired. He wonders if he’d have ever realised he could love anything in the world this much.





	Bone Tired

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place post Infinity War conclusion. Vague allusions (spoilers) to the events which take place at the end of Infinity War Part 1, but otherwise completely canon divergent. 
> 
> Honestly I was just tired of these characters not having a happy ending in....literally any Marvel movie they've ever starred in and I just know there's a huge clusterfuck more pain headed our way. So I wanted to write this as a little safe bubble of happiness, where they finally get the emotional resolution they both deserve.

 

(Bone Tired playlist [x](https://open.spotify.com/user/gabby_parker/playlist/75ibYJhjqaGZUsoSWQSHtQ?si=cm9_GE8BR1Wup6a1MvxdbQ))

 

When Bucky is returned to him from the clutches of death a second time, Steve Rogers has no intention of letting go again.

 

He kneels in the sodden earth and holds on and he feels tired in a way that was bone deep, too deep to rid himself of. He decides then and there to give in, and it’s the first time he felt like he could catch his breath in years.

 

 _Far too many years_ , he tells himself. The world has had him for long enough.

 

One day he’ll have to lose everything all over again, and the only memories he will have made will be of the gritty fight, all his life, the barest shimmers of love - kissing Peggy, dancing with his mother in his kitchen when he was young, Bucky holding him upright in alleyways.

 

He was tired of trying to survive until the next time he could experience those shimmers; the imbalance was driving him into the ground. The fight had far outpaced him long ago, and the reasons for trying to keep up were dwindling.

 

He wanted an apartment in Brooklyn and he wanted to fill it with the things that he loved; plants, music from a gramophone, strong coffee, Bucky. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.

 

He wanted to wake up to something other than sore muscles, aching knuckles. He wanted to work in a flower shop, a café, a library. Maybe go to college again, catch up on all he’d missed out on, take a course in history and see what he’d left behind.

 

He wonders what it would have been like if they’d never gone to the war, if they’d stayed at home and became worn out in the normal way - through living a life as it was meant to be lived; birth, work, marriage, kids, death. He wonders if he would have been this tired. He wonders if he’d have ever realised he could love anything in the world this much.

 

Somehow, he doubts it, and it’s that thought that has him standing, reaching down to the man kneeling beneath him.

 

He says, _Let’s go_ , he says, _Let’s run away together._ And when Bucky takes his hand, the look on his face is the most open thing Steve Rogers has ever seen. There is no hesitation, there is no doubt. Just a willingness, a loyalty, this steadfast devotion that Steve has always seen in his face but never been able to parse until now. He doesn’t have to speak, his face says _Go anywhere - I will follow_.

 

In the midst of the chaos, the joyous reunion, loved ones finding loved ones, mothers finding children, brothers finding brothers - they slip away, melting out into the night, their hands never parting, and Steve’s whole world _shimmers_.

 

* * *

 

It takes a year, but it’s a small ask for something he’s waited a lifetime for. People still recognise him on the street sometimes, but instead of _Can I get a picture with you?_ , it’s  _Thank you for your service_ \- and honestly, Steve likes the sound of that better. 

 

He can sit in cafés and sketch buildings and cars and people, and peace will settle over him like sunlight. If the guilt comes in the nighttime, he tamps it down with settling small crimes - stopping fights in alleyways, catching thieves, and when he sinks into bed next, sleep comes easily.

 

He has his loft apartment, and it looks out over the city with bay windows, he can sit in bed and watch the sun come up. There are hanging plants and potted plants and window plants and the gramophone sits on the kitchen counter.

 

Bucky - Bucky is seldom home, because he refuses to live off the money Steve offers him. He works 3 jobs, day shifts and night shifts, at a diner, a grocery store, as a museum night guard. If someone recognises him at his work place, he often has to leave. The dark marks under his eyes reminds Steve of the greasepaint he wore when he first saw him again.

 

And Steve - well, Steve still hasn’t worked up the courage to tell him how he feels. Between finding an apartment, applying for jobs, enrolling in an art history course(Bucky’s idea, naturally) - there just hadn’t been the time.

 

And now Steve hardly sees him when they’re not both bone tired. Sometimes Steve will get back from a street fight and Bucky will look just as beat up from the day he’s had, sprawled out on the couch. Sometimes, Steve will find him a blanket and leave him be, but one night, when he gets home and aches, he sees Bucky and aches a little more.

 

He lets his college backpack fall to the floor softly in the doorway, stepping out of his shoes. He can see the awkward sleeping position Bucky had gotten himself into on the couch from the door way, the TV in the lounge area flickering on a low volume.

 

The sight makes him shake his head, fond, and something tells him carrying Bucky to bed would be the best course of action. Later, he’d wonder if the same voice had tempted Eve with an apple.

 

He switches the TV off as he passes it, and then absentmindedly brushes some locks out of Bucky’s face, content to watch the rise and fall of his chest and the odd position his limbs had found themselves in. Steve refrains from making a noise ofamusement, instead dipping down to pick him up, one arm going under his knees and the other supporting his back. For his slighter stature, he did have a lot of muscle, and Steve dearly loved the solid weight of him against his chest.

 

He carries him like that to Bucky’s room, which was more of a guest bedroom that he’d personalised. When Steve had bought the apartment, he’d had soft ideas about the king sized bed in front of the bay windows - how he’d bring Bucky breakfast in bed on the weekends, how he’d leave early for some briefcase job on weekdays and kiss Bucky on the forehead whilst he still slept.

 

But, the second they’d opened the door for the first time, their sparse belongings in suitcases behind them, Bucky had spotted the guest bedroom and declared it his, rolling his suitcase over before Steve had had a chance to argue.

 

It was probably for the best. Perhaps Bucky had already realised how Steve felt about him, and was attempting to put a healthy distance between them. Maybe he worked all those jobs just so he wouldn’t have to deal with Steve looking at him like a lost dog.

 

Those thoughts stung, but Steve was used to them by now. His self-deprecating anxiety was the only ailment that had survived the super serum, and sometimes Steve thinks he would have preferred the asthma.

 

Pushing the thoughts aside, he lays Bucky down in his soft bed, being careful not to jostle him. He’s fussing with the pillows when Bucky’s hand comes up to hold the front of his shirt, softly. When Steve looks down, Bucky is looking at him with a soft gaze, sleepy and warm.

 

“Steve?”

 

Steve smiles, keeps his voice low when he says, “Hey, Buck.”

 

The hand in Steve’s shirt tugs, just a little, insistent like a kid, and Steve lets himself get pulled closer. Slowly, perhaps still hazy from sleep, Bucky’s arms go round his shoulders, pulling him down. Steve finds himself being pulled against him, chest to chest, his head tucked over his shoulder, and Bucky is holding onto him so weakly, as if he’s scared to, but Steve doesn’t dare pull away.

 

“I miss you,” Bucky says, his voice quiet. Steve swears he can feel his heart pause. “I miss talking to you.”

 

Steve doesn’t quite know what to say, startled by how gentle the admission sounded. Then, of their own volition, his arms go around Bucky’s back, holding him.

 

“I’ll come see you more,” He promises, feeling like a kid. “I’ll come pick you up at work, we can grab something to eat.”

 

Bucky buries his face into his shoulder, and his voice is muffled when he says, “Please.”

 

And Steve’s chest throbs in a single, longing ache.

 

* * *

 

The next day finds him standing outside of the diner Bucky works at, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

 

He used to come to Bucky’s workplaces often in the beginning, but it seemed to make Bucky nervous, unable to focus, so slowly, he’d stopped coming at all. It had added a whole new selection of material for his anxiety, so he’d go out of way to avoid coming anywhere near Bucky when they weren’t in their apartment together.

 

It felt so disjointed, and backwards, for them to fall into this awkward dance around each other. Never quite meeting, refusing to look too long at one another.

 

But Bucky had asked, more or less, for Steve to come back into his orbit. And if nothing else, Steve was a man of his word.

 

He pushes the door open with that incentive, the bell jangling over head and drawing Bucky’s attention immediately to him. He was wiping down the tables, patrons dwindling so close to closing time, and Steve awkwardly stays in place in the doorway.

 

He notes the 50s style aesthetic to the place, the tacky colourful fake leather seats, the checkered floor. Bucky was wearing some frilly waist apron, and it should have made Steve laugh but all it served to do was make him blush.

 

Bucky nods to him, at length, and Steve finally finds the courage to step inside, taking a seat next to the windows. Upon seeing this, Bucky puts the towel over his shoulder - like his mother used to in the kitchen - and takes out the notepad from his waist as he walks over.

 

Steve looks up at him imploringly when he stands next to his table, but Bucky’s gaze is steadfast on his notepad.

 

“Can I get you anything?”

 

Steve waits for him to look at him, and something reckless unfurls in his chest as he watches Bucky struggling not to, the same headstrong stupidity that got him into all those backstreet fights when he was little more than 110 lbs soaking wet.

 

Bucky finally looks at him, and Steve puts all his cocksure nervous energy into his smile.

 

“Actually,” He speaks like he used to speak to him in bars, running on the confidence that came after getting the serum, “I was wondering when your shift ends.”

 

Bucky blinks, once. They both knew Steve knew exactly when his shift ends, they’d been living together for nearly a year. It dawns slowly on Bucky that Steve was using some outdated flirting line, one they’d seen guys use on pretty girls all the time in diners when they were younger.

 

Steve watches as Bucky’s face goes bright red in increments, all the way up to the tips of his ears.

 

He ducks his head, as if his notepad had the answers. He fumbles a little with his pen, just for something to do with his hands. Steve props his face in his palm with his elbow on the table and watches Bucky with a moony-eyed expression, wondering why it had taken them so long to fall back into their old ways. They always used to flirt, casually, jokingly, but it was usually Steve getting flustered and Bucky doling out the outrageously cocky smirks.

 

Steve understands the allure of it now.

 

“I get off in ten minutes,” Bucky tells him, low so as not to be heard by his boss.

 

Steve’s smiles at him, gives him a once over just to make him blush more. “Alright. I can wait.”

 

Bucky swallows, looking a little unsure on his feet, before nodding, and disappearing off into the kitchens.

 

Steve smile doesn’t leave him the entire time he waits.

 

* * *

 

They decide to go to a sushi bar, because when Steve asks him what he’d like to eat, he says _Anything but a burger_ with a worn out tone, and Steve can’t help but laugh.

 

The awkwardness diluted itself in increments, and Bucky holds onto his waist on the back of Steve’s Harley, doesn’t startle too badly when Steve helps him off the bike.

 

In the restaurant, they talk, and it’s easy like it used to be - Bucky tells some dry humorous stories from work and Steve laughs and tells him about his classes, the crazy things kids get up to in college dorm rooms.

 

They try different foods, dare each other to eat larger bites of wasabi, get odd looks from the other customers but Steve couldn’t care less because it’s the happiest he’d been in months.

 

He thought the best feeling in the world was not being tired all the time, but it was definitely this.

 

There was just one thing bothering him, and the more time passed, the more it became prominent. Bucky only gesticulated with his right hand, picking up his chopsticks and the menu and his drink - even when it would have been natural to use his left, he refused to.

 

It wasn’t like he neglected it all of the time, Steve had seen him use it without hesitation when he didn’t think Steve was watching. It was like he was embarrassed of using it in front of Steve, and the thought makes his eyebrows crease.

 

Steve finds himself focusing on it more than the conversation, drifting out of concentration, and when Bucky calls his name, asks him if he’s listening, Steve just says,

 

“Can I see your hand?”

 

Bucky looks nonplussed by the question, out of sorts. Tentatively, near reluctant, Bucky rests his left hand on the table, wary like a dog.

 

Steve raises his right hand, offers his flat palm, wanting to measure his hand against his. Slowly, Bucky relents, and the first touch of cool smooth metal to the tips of his fingers makes Steve shiver.

 

He looks at their hands, palm to palm, smiling softly.

 

“My hands are still bigger than yours,” Steve says, drinking in Bucky’s awed expression like honey.

 

Bucky says nothing, so Steve slips his fingers underneath his, holding his hand like a gentleman ought to court a lady, drawing it towards him to examine.

 

He admires the sleek black finish, the gold lining. Looking up at Bucky’s expression, he asks,

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

Bucky blinks slowly, feline-like, as if Steve’s voice had entranced him.

 

“It’s sensitive,” Bucky admits, after a small quiet. Steve’s expression implores him to explain, so he does. “They’ve hooked it directly to my open nerves in my shoulder, and the synthetic nerve endings amplify everything.”

 

Steve had always been too tentative to ask about his arm; it was a subject that went unspoken between them like a lot of things. He wishes he’d been braver to ask about it before.

 

“They said I’d grow used to it,” He shrugs, “But I guess it’ll always feel slightly off.”

 

Steve smiles at that, doesn’t really think when he leans in the press his lips to the metal, meaning it as a playful gesture at most but Bucky pulls his hand back as if he’d burned him.

 

They watch each other, both startled by what just transpired, and Bucky stands, looking harrowed.

 

He tosses some notes onto the table from his pocket, mutters something about his night shift at the museum and he’s leaving before Steve gets a chance to register what had happened.

 

He sits in the booth, paralysed with shock, and lets his anxiety swallow him whole.

 

* * *

 

When Bucky comes back that night, taking off his shoes in the doorway, Steve is waiting up for him in the kitchen, arms folded across his chest.

 

He stops when he sees him, looking scared and exhausted. Steve feels the expression feed his anxiety like gasoline to a fire.

 

“Can’t sleep?” Bucky says, going to the fridge for a beer.

 

 _So he’s going to avoid it_ , _then_ , Steve thinks, hollowly.

 

“Buck.” He says, hoping Bucky will acknowledge him. He doesn’t.

 

“I mean, I guess sleep draughts don’t work on us, huh?” He carries on like he hadn’t heard him, so Steve tries again.

 

“Bucky.”

 

He keeps rifling through the fridge, taking out ingredients for some kind of sandwich, balancing the plates and opening the beer with his metal hand. “Exercise helps. You should probably up your gym membership, maybe you’re getting lazy in your old age - ”

 

“ _James_.”

 

Bucky flinches at the volume, his shoulders making an abortive movement. Slowly, he puts down the plates and closes the fridge, coming to lean defensively against the counter with his back to Steve.

 

“You haven’t called me that since we were 6.”

 

“I need to apologise to you,” Steve implores, and it sounds needy even to his own ears, but he needs to get it out. “For what I did to you today. Please.”

 

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” Bucky turns to face him, and it’s a tired movement, supported by the counter. “I had to leave for work.”

 

“I upset you,” Steve insists, and he knows that they’re both too tired for this, that if it escalated into an argument neither one of them will be in the right mind for it, “I crossed a line- some boundary, and I made you uncomfortable, and if - if the way I feel about you - if it offends you, then I’ll find some way to stop - ”

 

“The way you feel about me.” He picks the phrase out like a statement, and the way he says it is sceptical, as if Steve couldn’t possibly be serious. “You love me?”

 

It’s so nonchalant that Steve feels it like a hit to the chest, radiating outward in a slow ache. He nods, helpless, feeling like he was being reprimanded for it.

 

“How long?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer immediately, feeling vaguely sick at the interrogation.

 

“How long have you been in love with me?”

 

“A while,” Steve admits, uncertain and defensive.

 

Bucky sighs, like that had disappointed him somehow. “What counts as a while, Steve?”

 

“I don’t know,” He says, and his hands shake.

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“What does it matter?” He raises his voice, feeling cornered, appalled. Angry by how poorly Bucky was taking this.

 

“It matters! How can it not matter?” In his anger, he hits the the counter top, palm down, not flinching when his metal hand takes a chunk out of the porcelain. “I’ve been in love with you for decades!”

 

Steve is frozen, staring at the indent in the counter, barely registering what he’d just said. Bucky doesn’t let him catch his breath, he isn’t finished, he just keeps speaking, his voice winding itself into hysteria.

 

“I’ve wanted to marry you since I knew what marriage was, do you understand that? I’ve loved you since you were 5 foot nothing and you wore women’s shoulder pads to make yourself look bigger - I loved you when you found me in that stupid war and saved me and I had to watch you fall in love with someone else and when I fell from that train do you know what the last thing that went through my head was? _You._ Your stupid face and your voice, the fact that I never told you _.”_

 

He looks away, as if he can’t stand the shock on Steve’s face, the open pain he finds there _,_ but still he doesn’t stop, like some wall has been torn down and it’s flooding out of him.

 

“And then when they found me and changed me, do you know why they had to recondition me so many times? I kept remembering you.” He runs his hands through his hair, movements jittery, frantic. “It took a century of torture, putting me under again and again, making me do all those things I did, and all you had to say was my name. Do you understand that? Do you get it? They told me to kill you and everything in my body said _no_.”

 

He makes this noise, this hurt little self-deprecating laugh and Steve wants to hold him but he can’t make himself move.

 

“After all that, I come back to you, afraid, barely human, and you know what you do?” He flashes his teeth, like some feral imitation of a smile, and Steve feels sick to his stomach. “You kiss some woman in front of me in your stupid beat up car, so don’t talk to me about loving someone, Steve.”

 

He pushes off the counter, leaving the crumbling porcelain in his wake, snatching his beer off the side.

 

“Your crush means nothing.” He tells him as he passes, not looking at him. “You just miss home, and I’m all you’ve got left.”

 

Steve cannot find the words, can’t even bring himself to reach out, so he just watches, helpless as Bucky gets swallowed up by the darkness of his room and closes the door.

 

He stands in their empty kitchen and feels his anxious heart morph into something darker, mind going blank even as he’s pulling on his shoes, his jacket, and the door to their apartment whispers closed with a soft click behind him when he walks out into the night.

 

Somewhere in their apartment, Bucky opens the door to his room, eyes wet, and realises he’s alone.

 

* * *

 

Sam is understandably groggy when he opens the door in the early hours of the morning the next day, but the look Steve gives him makes him hold his tongue to vicious comments.

 

Instead, he holds the door open with his arm and steps aside to let Steve in.

 

* * *

 

“That’s a long time to love someone,” Sam says, into the silence following Steve’s account.

 

Steve looks up at him, helpless, and his expression says _I know. Please help me._

 

Sam sighs, put-upon and still hazy from sleep, and when the kettle goes off,he sets about making them both some coffee.

 

“So you just left? After?” He asks conversationally as he pours Steve’s mug. “You didn’t say anything?”

 

Steve takes the proffered mug gratefully, letting it warm his hands. “What could I say? I - panicked, and left.”

 

Sam raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his own coffee, coming to sit across from him on the couch.

 

“So he’s alone right now?”

 

Steve shakes his head, running a tired hand over his face. “He’s out most days. He probably has a shift at work.”

 

Sam regards him, the self-pitying slump to his shoulders, the way his hands are wrapped around the cup like a lifeline, the hang of his head. He turns away from him, looks out the window in the kitchen over the back of the couch, contemplative.

 

“I don’t know, man, I don’t know what to suggest,” He tells him, honestly, his voice soft. “All I know is if the person I lost came back and told me he loved me - I wouldn’t be anywhere but with him right now.”

 

He feels Steve perk up at that, sees him lift his head out of the corner of his eye. His exhaustion keeps him from registering how big an admission that was, and he just lets it settle around him as he brings the cup to his lips, looking out at the sun in the horizon.

 

Before Steve can form any sort of adequate response, the phone rings; a shrill, insistent noise. Sam stands to answer it, wondering who would bother calling at god forbid o’clock in the morning, but his hand pauses as he recognises the number on the receiver.

 

“It’s him,” He says, turning to Steve to gage his reaction. Steve’s mouth parts in surprise.

 

“Don’t answer it,” He insists, voice urgent, reaching a hand out in an abortive movement.

 

The ringing doesn’t stop, and when it goes to voicemail they both hold their breath.

 

“ _Sam?_ ”

 

Steve feels his heart ache at the sound of his voice - meek, cracked open, distorted horribly by the receiver -

 

“ _I - is Steve with you? He didn’t - he didn’t come home last night, and his college stuff is still here - I was just - has he contacted you? Sorry, I’m just - worried, is all, can you call me back when you get this?”_

 

There’s this shaky breath before the line goes dead, the electronic click and then silence, heady and tense.

 

“See? He misses you al - ” Sam turns around to an empty apartment, a mug of still-hot coffee steaming on the table, his front door closing with a click.

 

He shakes his head, putting a tired hand over his face.

 

“I really wish you’d stop doing that.”

 

* * *

 

Steve’s Harley is almost out of gas by the time he gets back to Brooklyn, and he’s pretty sure he’s committed at least seven traffic violations that neither Captain America’s smile nor his senior citizen card can fix.

 

He couldn’t care less, and he takes the stairs two at a time, fumbling with his keys trying to get the door open.

 

When he manages it, he nearly trips over his own feet, slightly out of breath when he rights himself.

 

He finds Bucky sat on the edge of the couch, head hung over his phone, but he lifts his face at the noise. The shock of seeing Steve in the doorway makes his body stand of its own volition, and he’s moving across the floor before he even registers it.

 

Steve expects him to hit him, but when his hands come up, they go around his shoulders, his cheek hot against his throat.

 

“I thought you left me,” He says, muffled, into his shoulder. His hands shake. “I thought you were gone.”

 

Steve stares blankly out into their apartment, unsure what to say, unsure what to do with his hands. Only registering that he’d hurt him again, somehow, without meaning to.

 

“I wouldn’t,” He promises, when his voice finds him, and his arms go around him, “I didn’t think you’d want to see me - ”

 

“Forget - everything I said,” Bucky insists, and his fingers dig into Steve’s old beat-up jacket. “It doesn’t matter, you can kiss all the women you want - just come home to me - ”

His voice breaks, and Steve is horrified by what he’d just said. He hushes him, burying a hand into his hair, holds him tighter.

 

“Hey, no, that isn’t what I want - ” He pulls back, takes Bucky’s face in his hands to look him in the eye. “I only want you. Do you hear me?”

 

Bucky’s gaze flickers over his face, as if he’s searching for something, some kind of vindication -

 

“It took me a while to realise it, that’s all,” He brushes his thumbs over his cheeks, tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

 

Bucky shakes his head, uncomprehending in the face of it, looking lost. “I didn’t mean those horrible things I said - ”

 

“You were right,” Steve tells him, earnest and soft. “I was ignorant, and I ended up hurting you - and that’s the last thing I’d ever want to do.”

 

Bucky is silent at that, choosing to tuck his face into Steve’s shoulder instead of speaking. Steve’s chest throbs at the show of affection, nearly overwhelmed by it.

 

“I quit because the only thing fighting has ever gotten me is losing you,” He admits, into the quiet.“I bought this apartment so I could see you everyday.”

 

Bucky’s fingers curl into his jacket. Steve dips low to pick him up, and Bucky’s legs go around his waist without question, keeping his face buried against his throat as he carries them to the couch.

 

When he settles with Bucky tucked against him in his lap, he continues, carding his fingers through his hair.

 

“I had this image of us waking up to each other, dancing in the kitchen, making breakfast, me picking you up from work - I didn’t stop to think that it might be difficult for you to adjust, or dare to imagine you could possibly feel the same, let alone for that long.” Steve can feel Bucky breathing against his chest, and it grounds him. “I was naïve to think we could just fit back together after everything that’s happened between us. But, if you’d let me - I’d like to try and fix the mess I made.”

 

It sounds weak even to Steve’s ears, but in the next moments, Bucky is kissing him. The shock of it makes him go still, so still he would have thought he’d ceased to exist if it weren’t for his heartbeat - so loud, so incredibly close. Bucky’s mouth tasted like salt and mint, and he closes his eyes, leans into it, soft, reverent.

 

The sunlight outlines him when Steve pulls back, casting him in a soft glow. Shimmers dance in the corner of his vision, and he brushes a lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear.

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

The look Bucky gives him is tentatively fond, and he simply nods, emotionally exhausted. Steve is a little sidelined by the honesty of it, the lack of a smartass comeback.

 

Bucky just closes his eyes, breathes slowly like it’s the first time he could exhale in a long time. Steve thinks of snow on mountains under traintracks, lakes and rivers in Washington, chambers that freeze things into a fixed point like moths under a needle - thinks about how someone might come to notice when breathing comes easier.

 

He lies them down then, Bucky tucked against his chest on the couch, pushing those dark thoughts away. He feels his breath against the hollow of his throat, and cherishes it, thinks he’ll never know peace again until he can feel Bucky breathing against him.

 

“So,” He says, into the soft midday light filtering through the balcony. “Decades, huh?”

 

His meaning is not lost on Bucky, who rubs his face petulantly into the dip of Steve’s shoulder.

 

“Shut, up, Steve.”

 

Steve makes a soft noise of amusement, pressing his fingers through his hair. “You know I’m going to get it out of you some way or another.”

 

“What’s more to say?” His voice comes out muffled, mussed with the pull of sleep. “I’ve loved youand loved you and loved you, that’s all I’ve ever done.”

 

Steve is quiet for so long in the wake of that that Bucky drifts into sleep, as if that were common courtesy after saying something so devastating. It’s quite possibly the softest thing Steve has ever heard.

 

He lets the words settle around him, and adjusts his breathing so that when Bucky’s chest expands, his depletes. He concaves against him like that until the tide of their sleepless night envelopes him, dragging him under the mounting crest of a wave. They breathe like the moon draws the ocean, and sleep knowing the interval before seeing each other next will be so much more brief than the last.

 

* * *

 

Sam comes down to Brooklyn the next day, and he tells himself it’s a casual visit, but in all actuality he’s partially concerned that maybe ex-assassin Sergeant Barnes exonerated Steve from the land of the living in a domestic spat.

 

He hadn’t heard back from either of them since Steve’s miraculous appearance in his apartment at 4am the previous morning, and honestly the radio silence was making him a little antsy.

 

Unlike Steve, he does have an ounce or two of decorum, and decides buying coffee as a peace offering for turning up at their apartment unannounced is a good ice-breaker. Hopefully they’ll be on good terms by the time he gets there, and if not, well - perhaps the peace-offering will prevent him from also being exonerated from the land of the living by ex-assassin Sergeant Barnes.

 

He’s rather deep in his thoughts, particularly the ex-assassin aspect of the whole situation, which is why he comes up short upon pushing open the café door and seeing Steve and Barnes huddled together in a booth, heads tilted towards each other in intimate conversation whilst they play footsie under the table like a pair of highschoolers.

 

They don’t even acknowledge his presence with the bell above the door jangling to announce his arrival, they are so entranced in each other.

 

He clears his throat, impatient, and Steve’s head finally comes up to look at him, the moony look on his face dissolving into pleasant surprise.

 

“Sam!”

 

“ _Hey, Sam, just calling to let you know I haven’t been murdered by my unstable roommate_ \- oh that’s great, Steve, thanks for letting me know,” Sam mutters bitterly under his breath as he slides into the seat opposite them. Steve has the decency to look sheepish as Sam gives him an unimpressed look.

 

Barnes acknowledges him with a nod when he turns to him, which he returns in kind. Every so often, Sam makes an appearance at his place of work if he’s passing through the city, and they have stilted conversations here and there on his breaks.

 

 

Their interactions are mostly awkward, and Sam uses it to tease his shortcomings in modern-day knowledge - much like how he’d done with Steve when they’d first met. Barnes was far more susceptible to believing him, though - once he’d used a gaggle of hipsters on their lunch break to convince him that 80s fashion was making a comeback.

 

Regardless, their dynamic changes when Steve is around as a mediatory point. He acts as a buffer between the two, because he had honed the disappointed look when they bicker to perfection.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

He considers them both, briefly, and decides lying is more trouble than it’s worth.

 

“Just passing through,” He says, like he always does, and doesn’t miss the look Bucky gives him. “Thought I’d drop by with some coffees to make sure you two hadn’t mauled each other.”

 

Steve huffs a laugh at that, ducking his head minutely before catching Sam’s gaze.

 

“We’re pretty good, actually,” Steve smiles at Bucky, and Sam has to force himself not to roll his eyes. “But you’re welcome to come over after we finish up here?”

 

“And become the unfortunate third wheel to the honeymoon couple?” Sam quirks an unimpressed brow. “I think I’d prefer the mauling.”

 

Steve takes that good-naturedly - as he does most of Sam’s teasing, and they settle into a conversation. It’s casual and stilted in equal measure, Steve apologising for the morning previous which Sam waves off as he sips from his coffee. He tells him Steve is on wingman duty for him for the next month, though, as punishment, and Steve takes to the idea eagerly.Bucky contributes little, but that’s not unusual for him, content to just watch Steve as he speaks for the both of them.

 

Sam sees the look on his face and wonders how he ever thought the man would be capable of hurting Steve. He catches his eyes going to the exits every so often, casing the building out of habit, even after all this time, but his shoulders were more relaxed than Sam had ever seen him. He kept his vibranium arm out of sight, but that was more to keep the chance of recognition to a minimum in the café. He was also pretty sure it was so Steve could hold his hand under the table, but he wasn’t looking too hard.

 

When they'd exhausted small talk and even some heavy talk, Steve excuses himself to go to the bathroom and supposedly pay the bill at the counter, and Sam and Bucky regard each other steadily.

 

Bucky looked almost hesitant, as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sam supposes it fell to him to extend the olive branch.

 

“Just so you know,” He began, nonchalant. “If you break his heart, I’ll break both your legs.”

 

Okay, so, olive branch might be an exaggeration. He refrains from rolling his eyes at himself, and reaches into his pocket for another tactic. Originally, he’d meant for them to be a joke, something to hand over with the coffees as a way to embarrass them. Now, he subtly slides them across the counter to Bucky under his hand.

 

He nods in his direction, pointedly. “Put them in your wallet,” He instructs, blasé as possible handing over drugstore items in a café in the middle of the day. “You’ll be needing them later, I imagine.”

 

To his credit, Bucky does what he’s told without fuss, the barest tint of red on his cheeks. There’s even a flash of begrudging amusement when he nods his thanks.

 

Sam does roll his eyes then, standing to deposit their plastic coffee cups in the bin. When he returns to the table, Steve was already shrugging on his jacket that made him look like pensioner despite being 90% muscle.

 

“Ready to go?” Steve smiles at them both, and Sam gives him a bemused look.

 

“I better give you two some time alone, after interrupting your date,”He grins when Steve ducks his head at that, and pats him on the shoulder.

 

He nods at Bucky, who returns the sentiment - and Sam wonders briefly whether this will be their sole mode of conversation for the duration of their interactions. With one last fond parting expression, he turns to leave.

 

The bell jangles overhead as he pushes through the café doors, turning his collar up against the afternoon chill.

 

He finds himself smiling a little, and curses his soft heart.

 

* * *

 

Steve holds the door to their apartment open for Bucky, who slips passed him and toes off his shoes.

 

There’s still residual energy from their fight, their reunion, the soft words spoken on the couch. Steve feels it in his shoulders as he shrugs off his jacket,and follows Bucky silently into their kitchen.

 

He watches him as he comes to lean against the counter, facing away from him. To anyone else the stance would look dismissive, cold, but Steve takes in the nervous bunching of his shoulders, the slight shake of his hands gripping the edge of the sink.

 

It was easier to talk in some tacky booth in a diner, where it felt like they were back in 1942. There was overly sweet coffee to sip in the heavy silences between words, white noise, stringent lighting to bleach the real world out.

 

In their apartment, there was just the cold light of day - and the space between them. Steve crosses it, bare footfalls silent over the wooden floor boards, and the air changes when he reaches him.

 

The sudden stillness that falls over Bucky gives Steve pause, and he hesitates just barely before reaching out - his heavy palms coming to rest on his shoulders, sweeping slowly downward to his forearms. He feels the tension bleed out into his hands, hears the shuddering outward breath as he hangs his head. The movement parts the soft hair at his nape, baring the skin beneath, and Steve feels his lips part in reverence. Before he quite knows what he's doing, he’s pressing his lipsthere, shivering at the sharp intake of breath Bucky draws at the contact.

 

There’s movement then, too fast to keep track of, a blur of motion and Bucky is kissing him, tugging him down with a hand on the back of his neck. The shock of it bleeds out into the warmth of their mouths, and Steve’s eyelids shutter closed, his hands shake as they go to Bucky’s waist.

 

Before his short-wired mind can catch up, Bucky is guiding him backward with hands on his hips, out of the open kitchen and towards the couch, never once disengaging.

 

Steve feels his centre of gravity shift when Bucky pushes him down onto the couch, interrupting the kiss for the few sparse seconds it takes for Bucky to mount his lap. He’s still breathless when he feels Bucky’s thighs slip either side of his hips, the weight of him solid and grounding. Then Bucky was leaning in again, and all the oxygen seemed to get sucked out of the room like a broken airlock.

 

Bucky opens his mouth with his tongue, and Steve had never been kissed like that before. Everything prior to it became chaste in contrast, innocent, childish. The way Bucky was kissing him was simultaneously the filthiest thing he’d ever done, and the closest thing to divinity he’d ever felt.

 

They kiss for what seems like eons, until Steve’s mouth becomes red and he’s dizzy with it, and Bucky grips the back of the couch with his metal hand, cupping Steve’s face with the other. He’s suckling on Steve’s tongue, rocking his hips down in a way that makes Steve’s hands shake where they’re curled into Bucky’s shirt. Steve can’t remember the last time he’d been so embarrassingly hard in his life.

 

Between kisses, Steve’s whispers urgently, “Don’t you - think we’re going - _Jesus, Bucky_ \- aren’t we going too fast?”

 

Bucky moves to kiss at his throat, his hands undoing the buttons on Steve’s shirt. “Steve, we’ve been taking it slow for nearly 80 years.”

 

It shocks laughter out of him, soft and light, and he tilts his head back in submission, letting Bucky do what he likes.He smooths a hand down his back, and the softness of it is a little dissonant, like petting a beast as it was trying to devour him. “It’s just -I’m not exactly well-versed in all of this.”

 

“Just do what feels good,” Bucky tells him, kissing his mouth again as he pushes the shirt down his shoulders. “And tell me to stop if it gets too much.”

 

Steve realises this is what Bucky is like when he’s desperate; barely able to keep his hands off him, barely stopping to speak.

 

Steve finally takes some initiative and presses his hips up, holding Bucky still by his waist. The movement has Bucky gasping, gripping his biceps, and Steve smirks a little, kissing the base of his exposed throat. “You’re surprisingly knowledgable about this for someone who swore his fidelity to me by age 5.”

 

Bucky’s fingers dig in, tensing minutely at the accusation, and Steve pulls back to look at him. Bucky turns his face, looks out of the bay window, and Steve watches the midday sun paint him golden.

 

“Ever heard of sparrow programmes?” He says, quiet, sober, and Steve feels his meaning dawn over him like a shadow. “It wasn’t like I had much choice.”

 

“Buck - ”

 

“Don’t,” Bucky says, but his voice is soft, forgiving rather than a admonishment, and when he faces him again, there’s a small smile. “None of that matters anymore. If I had to go through it to get to you, I’d do it again.”

 

Steve feels that ease the knot in his chest some, overwhelmed by how many different ways Buckycould tell him he loved him. He wonders if he’d been telling him all along.

 

“I love you,” Steve tells him, because it’s the only way he knows, because he wants Bucky to hear it. He pushes away the thought of what Bucky had just told him, focuses on the way Bucky is looking at him, holding him.

 

Bucky’s smile grows angelic, and Steve leans up and kisses him, soundly. He rests his right hand on Steve’s chest, regarding him with fond awe. “I believe you.”

 

Steve loses track of time kissing him, just closes his eyes and gets swept up in it, warmed by the sun and the places Bucky touches him. Bucky pulls his shirt over his head, and the light catches his shoulder, seamlessly attached to his skin, the sunburst scar spidering across his chest.

 

Steve had seen him shirtless about the apartment sometimes, when he wandered about barefoot after a shower, but those times were few and far between. If he was aware of Steve’s gaze on his naked chest, he’d soon disappear into his room.

 

Now, he feels Steve’s gaze and forces himself not to react under it. He tries to avoid looking at him, but Steve’s hands move from his hips in a soft upward motion, curling over his shoulders, sliding down his arms. Bucky shivers at the contact, the unflinching glide of skin over metal.

 

“You don’t have to touch it,” Bucky tells him, sounding reluctant to have to mention it.

 

Steve takes his left hand and kisses the vibranium palm, watching Bucky under his lashes as he does it. Bucky’s expression shutters as he goes red, barely containing a shiver, and Steve smirks against the metal.

 

“If you don’t start touching me with both hands, I’m going to lose my mind,” Steve says, moving his lips to the pads of Bucky’s fingers, the smooth alloy cool on his hot mouth. He parts his lips, letting the index and middle fingers slip inside, and Bucky watches with a mix of horror and lust as Steve presses his tongue up to meet them.

 

He groans, overly sensitive, his hips pressing down of their own accord, and Steve’s eyes slip closed, content to suck on Bucky’s fingers as he rocks against his thigh.

 

“Steve,” Bucky cautions, his voice breathy. “I - ”

 

Steve’s hand goes to the button on Bucky’s jeans, opening his eyes to take in Bucky’s expression as he undoes them, pulling down the zipper at the blissed out look on Bucky’s face.

 

Bucky is a sticky mess when he puts his hand inside his underwear, pre-come soaking the fabric. He gives his cock a slow tug, watching Bucky’s face for discomfort, uncertain. Bucky makes a low sound, his eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

 

Steve’s voice is rough when he pulls back to ask, “Okay?”

 

Bucky just nods, a little desperate, and kisses him. Steve does his best with the awkward angle and lack of experience, but it seems to be more than enough. He keeps getting wetter, and Steve presses a thumb over the slit, rubbing the slick under the head in slow motions. It only takes a fewrough strokes after that, licking into his mouth how Bucky taught him, and he was coming all over his fingers, shaking under his hands.

 

Steve hushes him when he starts making little noises of overstimulation, panting softly against Steve’s throat.

 

Into the quiet that washes over them, the dust motes in the sunlight, Bucky whispers, “Take me to bed,” so, Steve picks him up, ignoring the ache in his thighs, and carries Bucky up to his room.

 

The stairs prove a little difficult after being pinned underneath a 170 lbs super soldier, but he manages, enjoying the ache in his thighs and arms.

 

He lays Bucky in the middle, and gets a soft kiss for his efforts, before standing to shuck off his jeans. On the bed, Bucky was ridding himself of his ruined trousers and underwear, and Steve chuckles at his awkward squirming before leaning over to help.

 

Once he’s rid of them, Bucky lies back against the covers, looking sated. Steve takes him in, his arms splayed in the covers, hands curled next to his cheeks, his cock soft against his thigh, locks of hair fanned around his face like a halo.

 

When Bucky catches Steve staring, he reaches his hands towards him, imploring. Steve smiles, and complies, going onto his hands and knees above him to lean down and kiss him.

 

Bucky opens his legs when their lips touch, whorish and obscene. He puts a hand between Steve’s legs and presses the heel of his palm to his hard cock, speaking softly in his ear.

 

“I want this inside me,” He breathes, and Steve’s hands clench in the sheets.

 

“Tell me what to do,” He asks, suddenly and completely out of his depth.

 

“There’s condoms and lube in my wallet, in my jeans.” Bucky tells him, and Steve nods, leans over the side of the bed to retrieve them.

 

He flips open the wallet and takes out what they need. He can’t help the undertone of jealousy when he asks, “So, what, you just happen to carry these around?”

 

“Sam said that’s what everyone does,” Bucky says, oblivious to Steve’s tone, shrugging a little. “He said it was the benchmark of the Modern Man.”

 

Steve shakes his head, vaguely miffed. “I’m gonna kill him.”

 

“Hey, he saved you an awkward trip to the MiniMart, I’d buy him a beer,” Bucky tells him, offhandedly, and Steve laughs at the thought.

 

“Captain America caught buying condoms at a 7-Eleven off 34th street.” Steve intones, tearing open the foil packaging, “Now, how do you put this thing on?”

 

“You go to college, Steven, how do you not know these things,” Bucky mutters, taking the condom from him. Steve rolls his eyes, and goes up onto his knees to take his underwear off, too caught up in the married-couple bickering to think about the fact that Bucky’s never seen him this naked before.

 

Bucky kind of opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again, looking a little starstruck. Steve laughs at him, the appraising look turning him cocky. He takes his time crowding over him to kiss him, keeps his voice low when he says, “Just put it on me so I can fuck you.”

 

Bucky almost drops the condom at that, startled by how turned on Steve swearing got him, already half-hard underneath him. He fumbles a little, but manages to slide it down Steve’s cock, resisting the urge to push him onto his back and take it into his mouth.

 

He tears open the packet of lube, pouring it messily over his fingers and reaching between his legs, reddening a little at the thought of doing this in front of Steve. Steve kisses his neck and watches, groaning when he sees Bucky’s fingers slip inside himself. He squirms a little under the attention and the pressure, trying to prep himself quickly, but Steve sits back to watch.

 

“Can I try?” Steve asks, looking a little mesmerised, and Bucky resists the urge to cross his legs to keep him from looking. He nods, a little uncertainly, and Steve takes the half empty packet of lube and wets his fingers, waiting for Bucky’s instruction.

 

Bucky takes his own fingers out, starts stroking Steve’s cock with it, and guides Steve’s fingersbetween his legs with his other hand.

 

“You can push two fingers in, slowly,” Bucky tells him, semi-confident he can take at least that much with prep. Steve does as he’s told, pressing inside nice and slow, and Bucky gasps at how much deeper they go from that angle.

 

When he’s knuckle deep, Bucky is almost out of breath, heady at the mere thought of his fingers inside of him. The pads of Steve’s fingers are inches from his prostate, and he feels ready to come again already.

 

“Press upward, and rub in circles -” Bucky instructs, trying to sound authoritative, but when Steve does what he says, he almost whites out. His hands still before coming to hold onto to Steve’s shoulders, pulling him down to kiss him, trying to keep himself from shaking.

 

Steve fingers him open until Bucky feels like sobbing, panting against his neck, digging his fingers into his shoulders, writhing against the sheets.

 

When he finally holds Bucky’s thighs open and presses his cock inside, there’s tears running down Bucky’s cheeks, and he’s whimpering into Steve’s mouth as he kisses him. Steve is still untilBucky breathes out, tells him to move.

 

He sets a gentle pace, rubbing his thumbs over Bucky’s hips, running his hands over Bucky’s chest. He cards his fingers through his hair, speaks soft hushing words against his lips.

 

“You can go faster,” Bucky urges him, when he feels fucked open enough to take it how he needs it.

 

“Yeah?” Steve says, voice breathy, and he sits back on his heels to look down at Bucky twisted in the sheets. He puts Bucky’s right leg over his shoulder, and the angle presses him deeper. Bucky groans, vision sparking momentarily and his fingers curl into the covers.

 

He alternates between building a rhythm and pressing in deep, stroking Bucky’s cock in teasing intervals.

 

Soon, Steve gets cocky, like he always did with things he was immediately good at, and the teasing becomes unbearable. His chest was becoming overly sensitive, and his spent cock was dribbling a mess of pre-come on his navel.

 

Bucky grits his teeth, feeling vengeful.

 

“I used to think about -coming up here when you weren’t home,” Bucky pants, his voice low. “I thought about taking off my clothes and touching myself in your bed.”

 

Steve’s hips stutter, eyes widening at the admission. His fingers dig into Bucky’s thigh.

 

“I’d edge myself in my room thinking about it,” He admits, taking his time rounding out each word, making Steve unable not to listen to every syllable. “Wondered what would happen if you came home early, and found me.”

 

“Christ, Bucky, I can’t - ”

 

“What would you do to me?” Bucky whispers, eyes feline-like. “If you found me like that?”

 

Steve bends him double and kisses him hard, just to shut him up, and Bucky smirks into his mouth, moans when Steve begins to fuck him harder. He encourages it, digging his fingers into his biceps, feels the liquid heat in his abdomen build.

 

“I’m close,” Bucky tells him, near begging, and Steve kisses his temple, hushing him gently.

 

“Me too,” He promises, taking Bucky’s cock into his hand and rubbing slow circles into the head with his thumb.

 

It takes a few more shallow thrusts and Bucky is coming, tightening around Steve’s cock as his thighs shake.

 

“Please,” Bucky breathes, feeling the intensity of it soon dissolve into overstimulation. “Please, please, please - ”

 

Steve swears, voice rough, near breathless, and comes whilst burying his face into Bucky’s shoulder.

 

They both collapse, trying to catch their breath. When they come down from the high, hazy in the afterglow, Steve pulls out and stands shakily, padding over to the en suite to dispose of the condom and clean himself up.

 

He returns with a warm cloth, chucks it in Bucky’s general direction, and collapses onto the bed next to him. They lay like that for some time, staring up at the ceiling, contemplative.

 

Then, slowly, Bucky turns to him.

 

“Round two?”

 

Steve smirks, rolls on top of him for a kiss. When he leans back to look at him, Bucky is smiling, soft and warm in the afternoon light, shimmering.

 

“I could do this all day.”

 

 

The End

 

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